It’s often a mistake to revisit the bands of your youth but I had no regrets going to see the mighty Killing Joke who’ve just released their 13th album.

It’s been a long time since I first saw them as a teenager in London but they can still out-drone the best of them.

A maniacal front man with a penchant for face paint, boiler suits and the apocalypse, another band member who ended up in a psychiatric ward, flirtations with the occult, accusations of fascism and temporarily decamping to Iceland to avoid the end of the world have provided plenty of entertainment along the way.

They’ve also had an entertainingly fractious relationship with the music press over the years including one unfortunate who had a box of maggots tipped over his desk after a falling out.

The songs aren’t all tap dancing and sunshine but they’ve plowed a unique furrow through three decades of music. Bing Crosby always wanted to be like this.